The penthouse is quiet except for the hum of the city outside the tall windows. You’re at the sink, sleeves rolled, rinsing the last of the plates. Killian’s a few feet away, running a cloth over the stove, his movements sharp and efficient, like even cleaning is something he needs to master.

You’re half-zoned out, lost in thought, when the plate in your hands slips. It crashes against the tile with a sharp crack, shattering into jagged pieces at your feet.

You gasp and instinctively step back, but Killian is there before you can move. His hand clamps firmly around your waist. “Don’t,” he orders, voice low, unshakable. “Don’t move a damn inch.”

You freeze, heart racing, staring down at the shards glittering dangerously across the floor.

“It’s just a plate,” you start, your voice unsteady.

His jaw tightens. “I don’t give a fuck what it is. You’re not standing in the middle of it.”

Before you can argue, his arms are around you, lifting you clean off the floor. He sets you on the counter with deliberate care, as if the idea of your skin brushing the glass is unbearable. His touch lingers longer than necessary, hands warm and firm against your sides.

From your perch, you watch him crouch down, sweeping the shards into a pile with quick, controlled movements. He doesn’t glance at you until every piece is corralled out of reach.

“You weren’t paying attention,” he says finally, his voice softer but edged with something heavier. “One second like that, and you could’ve torn yourself open.”

“I would’ve been fine—”

His head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours. “No. You don’t get to say that. Not when it’s your blood on the line.” He stands, closing the space between you in two strides, his palms braced on either side of you on the counter. “You’re mine. I don’t let anything touch what’s mine. Not even a shard of glass.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his stare. It’s dark, consuming, but steady—like he needs you to understand that it’s not about the plate at all.

“I’ll burn this whole place to the ground before I watch you bleed in front of me,” he mutters, his thumb brushing just under your jaw. “So next time, you let me handle it. Always.”

And though the floor is clear now, his hand stays firm on your leg, grounding you, as if daring the world—or you—to test him again.